On this special occasion, when Betty brought the rules to the Vivian attic, she forgot all about Dickie. He was out, running round and round the attic, rushing up the walls, peering at Betty from over the top of the door, creeping as far as the ceiling and then coming down again. He was, as a rule, easily caught, for Sylvia and Hetty always kept his meal of raw meat till after he had had his exercise. But Betty had now forgotten that it was necessary to have a bait to bring Dickie once more into the shelter of his cage. She had consequently fed him first, then let him free, and then stood by the small window of the attic reading the rules of the Specialities. It was Rule I. which troubled her. Rule I. ran as follows: “Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know, is ready to consider each member as though she were her own sister, to help her in time of trouble and to rejoice with her in periods of joy.”
To be quite frank, Betty did not like this rule. She was willing to give a certain amount of affection to most of the girls who belonged to the Specialities; but as to considering even nice girls like the Bertrams as her own sisters, and Susie Rushworth (who was quite agreeable and gay and kind) in that relationship, and Olive Repton also, as she would Sylvia and Hetty, she did not think she could do it. She could be kind to them—she would love to be kind to them; she would love to help each and all in times of trouble, and to rejoice with them in periods of joy; but to feel that they were her sisters—that certainly was difficult. She believed it possible that she could admit Margaret Grant into a special and close relationship; into a deep friendship which partook neither of sisterhood nor of anything else, but stood apart and alone—the sort of friendship that a young, enthusiastic girl will give to a friend of strong character a little older than herself. But as to Fanny—she could never love Fanny. From the very first moment she had set eyes on her—away, far away, in Scotland—she had disliked her, she had pronounced her at once in her own mind as “niminy-priminy.” She had told her sisters frankly what she felt about Fanny. She had said in her bold, independent way, “Fanny is too good for the likes of me. She is the sort of girl who would turn me into a bad un. I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”
Fanny, however, had taken no notice of Betty’s all too evident antagonism. Fanny was, in her heart of hearts, essentially good-natured; but Betty was as impossible for her to understand as it was impossible for the moon to comprehend the brightness of the sun. Fanny had been shocked at what she had witnessed when she saw Betty take the sealed packet from the drawer. She remembered the whole thing with great distress of mind, and had felt a sense of shock when she heard that the Vivian girls were coming to the school. But her feelings were very much worse when her father had informed her that the packet could nowhere be found—that he had specially mentioned it to Betty, who declared that she knew nothing about it. Oh yes, Fanny and Betty were as the poles apart; and Betty knew now that were she to take the vows of the Specialities fifty times over she could never keep them, as far as Fanny Crawford was concerned. Then there was another unpleasant part of the same rule: “Each girl gives perfect confidence to her fellow-members, keeps no secret to herself which those members ought to know.” Betty undoubtedly had a secret—a very precious one. She had even told a lie in order to hug that secret to her breast. She had brought it away with her to the school, and now it was safe—only Betty knew where.
What puzzled her was this: was it necessary for the members to know her secret? It had nothing to do with any of them. Nevertheless, she was an honest sort of girl and could not dismiss the feeling from her own mind that Rule I. was practically impossible to her. The Specialities had met on Thursday in Margaret Grant’s room. The next meeting was to be held in Susie Rushworth’s. Susie’s room was in another wing of the building, and was not so large or luxurious as that of Margaret. The next meeting would, however, be quite formal—except for the admission of Betty to the full privileges of the club, and the reading aloud of the rules to Martha West. During the course of the week the Specialities seldom or never spoke of their meeting-day. Nevertheless, Betty from time to time caught Fanny’s watchful eyes fixed on her.
On the next Thursday morning she awoke with a slight headache. Miss Symes noticed when she came downstairs that Betty was not quite herself, and at once insisted on her going back to her room to lie down and be coddled. Betty hated being coddled. She was never coddled in the gray stone house; she was never coddled on the Scotch moors. She had occasional headaches, like every one else, and occasional colds; but they had to take care of themselves, and get well as best they could. Betty used to shake herself with anger when she thought of any one making a fuss about her when she was ill, and was consequently rather cross when Miss Symes took her upstairs, made her lie down, and put a wrap over her.
“You must lie down and try to sleep, Betty. I hope you will be quite well by dinner-time. Don’t stir till I come for you, dear.”
“Oh, but I will!” said Betty, raising her head and fixing her bright, almost feverish eyes on Miss Symes’s face.
“What do you mean, dear? I have desired you to stay quiet.”
“And I cannot obey,” replied Betty. “Please, Miss Symes, don’t be angry. If I were a low-down sort of girl, I’d sneak out without telling you; but as I happen to be Betty Vivian, I can’t do that. I want to get into the fresh air. Nothing will take away my headache like a walk. I want to get as far as that dreadful piece of common land you have here, and which you imagine is like a moor. I want to walk about there for a time.”
“Very well, Betty; you are a good girl to have confided in me. You have exactly two hours. Stay quiet for one hour. If at the end of that time your head is no better, out for an hour; then return to your usual duties.”